


Cinderelly, Cinderelly

by andthelightbulbclicks



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cinderella, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 20:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11767530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthelightbulbclicks/pseuds/andthelightbulbclicks
Summary: Clarke knows he started the whole "princess" thing because he was angry and hurt and needed to take it out on someone that wasn't her parents, his sister, or Murphy.But then Bellamy is searching for a girl he met, a princess, Octavia tells her. And Clarke can't help finding just how ironic her life has become.





	Cinderelly, Cinderelly

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: Bellarke fic in a cinderella universe
> 
> I feel like with any Cinderella story, there has to be some suspension of disbelief that yes, the prince _really_ doesn't know that's her, lol.. So you bet I kept that in mind while writing this :P

“Oh shit.”

Which, not exactly the words Clarke wants to hear from the person currently working on dying her hair.

“What,” Clarke says immediately, hands reaching up to touch her hair as she tries to turn around and look in the bathroom mirror. “’Oh shit,’ what?”

Raven grabs at her shoulders, keeping her in her sitting position and unable to catch a glimpse of the apparent disaster occurring on her head. “It’s not bad,” Raven assures her as soon as she’s confident that Clarke isn’t going to make a move to turn again, “it’s just– a lot more blue than I had anticipated.”

At that, Clarke can’t stop herself from whipping herself around in the kitchen chair they had dragged into their bathroom, and getting an eyeful of – yep, a whole lot of blue.

“Holy blue,” Clarke says, staring at her reflection, eyes tracing over her short hair that is most definitely far bluer than she and Raven had discussed.

Raven’s eyes meet hers in the mirror as she nods solemnly. “Holy blue,” she agrees.

“I thought we agreed that we were just doing the tips to test it out?” Clarke asks pointedly as Raven avoids her glare in the mirror.

“We did! But you chopped your hair so short and it’s so light and I may have misjudged the strength of the dye and how high it would seep up into your hair,” Raven defends.

At that, Clarke lets out a huff. “You said it’s temporary, right?”

“Yup,” Raven nods. “That’s why we used it, just to gauge how your hair would react to it,” she explains as she takes one of their bath towels to start tugging and squeezing at the blue hair, and winces when she pulls the towel away to find it dyed blue as well.

Clarke pins her with her best unimpressed look once she eyes the towel in Raven’s hands.

“Trust me,” Raven continues, tilting her head, her ponytail swinging with it’s perfectly dyed red tip, “when we do it for real, I’ll know to go lighter and to do a smaller portion of hair so it doesn’t, uh, end up going above your ears.”

As she says it, Clarke finds her hands tracing over the blue that starts to fade into blonde just above her ears. It’s _a lot_ of blue. Far more blue than blonde, even with her hair only brushing her shoulders to begin with.

“My mom’s going to lose it,” Clarke tells her as she takes the towel, trying to dab at the blue herself, and only accomplishing turning the towel bluer. “She’s going to think I’m going through an annual rebel phase. Dropped out of school last year, excessively dye my hair this year, get tons of piercings next year, a giant tattoo the year after that…”

Raven rolls her eyes. “Just tell Abby I did it and all will be forgiven.”

And well, she’s not _wrong_.

Clarke scrunches her nose in response, not actually having an argument to that.

“Besides,” Raven goes on, giving up on the now-blue towel and using it to start wiping up any excess dye off the counter. “It’ll wash out in two, three days tops. And the kids are gonna love it.”

And again, Raven Reyes is never technically _wrong_.

* * *

When Clarke was thirteen, her father died.

It had been sudden, blindsiding Clarke and her mother, and throwing them into a never-ending tailspin. Clarke was absolutely devastated, one day having her father’s smiling face teasing her, the next rushing to the hospital to say her goodbyes after a massive heart attack.

After that, she and her mom were never the same. They survived, made it through that first awful year after the heart attack, and even repaired their relationship as best as a grieving widow and a shattered and confused fourteen-year-old could. They’d make it, they’d just never have her dad there again to balance them out the way they needed.

When Clarke was fifteen, Abby introduced Marcus Kane to her.

This, she knew was coming.

She knew her mom had been going on dates, knew that it was all very tentative, and knew that this was important. It’d been two years, and though the spiteful side of her wanted to hate her mom for moving on and hate Marcus for even existing, she was willing to grudgingly acknowledge that wouldn’t be fair. She couldn’t expect her mom to never fall in love with someone again, and she couldn’t blame Marcus for making her mom happy and being that someone.

They married the following year, and Clarke _was_ happy for them. She briefly imagined Marcus being some sort of evil-step-father, but she couldn’t get the image to stick. She liked Marcus and his awkward attempts at assuring Clarke that he wasn’t trying to replace her father. And she liked the way he looked at her mom like she hung the moon.

When Clarke was sixteen, they told her that they wanted to start fostering.

On top of having been married to a very successful engineer for fifteen years, Abby came from a wealthy family. Marcus had his own fortune, often donating to Arkadia’s local history museum. They had the money, they had the room, and all they needed was for Clarke to be okay with having one or two kids around the house for the year or so she’d still be living at home before she left for college.

And Clarke was definitely all for it.

Which is how Octavia Blake and John Murphy came to live with them.

John, or well, Murphy, was fourteen. He’d been in the system for four years, after his mother had died from alcohol poisoning. Four foster homes, two counts of theft, and one final warning of juvie later, Murphy came to live with them with a smirk that told Clarke he didn’t plan on being there long.

Octavia was thirteen. Her mother had died the year before, and she’d been in a sort of foster-care-limbo since then because her eighteen-year-old brother was trying to get custody of her. The courts had ruled against the brother, and Octavia came to live with them, anger coursing through every inch of her small form.

At first, it was rough. Really rough.

Clarke knew she could never truly understand what they had gone through, what they were _going through_ , but she had wanted to try and make them feel at home, to let them feel like they _had_ a home. Abby and Marcus must have thought Clarke could be an outlet for them, someone around their age that they could talk to. She thought she could be that person too.

They didn’t.

They went to school, Murphy scowled at everything and Octavia didn’t speak, and they continued to pretend that Clarke didn’t exist, keeping to their rooms as much as they could.

And on top of all of that, there was Bellamy Blake.

Marcus and Abby never limited his access to Octavia once she came to live with them. Bellamy was welcome any time he wanted to see his sister. He was invited for dinner whenever he came by, which was often, and he accepted every time, if only to spend some more time with Octavia. He’d stay for dinner, help Octavia with any homework she had to do, and then thank her mom and step-dad before leaving to go back to the house his mom had left to him or to one of his many jobs.

He seemed to like Marcus and Abby well enough, was willing to be kind to them even if Clarke could see the tension he held the entire time he was there.

But Clarke? He _hated_ her.

The first time he came to see Octavia, she tried to talk to him as he waited for Abby to get Octavia. She wanted to see if he had any suggestions on how to get through to Octavia, even Murphy, and show them that she was on their side.

He’d looked at her with an amused tilt of his head and a roll of his eyes. “Try getting off your fucking high-horse and acknowledge the fact they don’t want you on their side, Princess.”

Octavia had burst through the kitchen door and into his arms right after, effectively ending the conversation before it could even start.

Clarke had been taken aback, felt the blood rush to her face even as she fought the urge to spit a retort back at him.

But her mom popped her head in the doorway and smiled at the sight of the two siblings together, and Clarke couldn’t do it. Octavia had been smiling for the first time since she came to live with them, and Clarke couldn’t, wouldn’t take that away.

She got why Bellamy hated her. She was the daughter of privileged people who were able to give his sister things he couldn’t. He wasn’t able to hate Abby or Marcus, but he could hate Clarke and create the image of her he wanted in order to justify it.

Clarke Griffin, the “princess” who was too self-entitled to understand anything, too good for the likes of Octavia or Murphy. Or him.

And she’d let him, if it meant he wouldn’t take it out on anyone else.

* * *

Clarke opens the door to her parent’s house, only to be welcomed by the sound of rock music and something that smells absolutely incredible coming from the kitchen.

She shakes her head fondly, making her way straight towards there and walking in to find Octavia sitting on top of the kitchen counter, feet swinging in front of her, as Murphy stands in front of the stovetop, stirring something sizzling in a pan.

She takes the moment before they notice her to just watch them. The calm and ease they have, how much they clearly _belong_ here after almost five years.

It’s only a second, because then Octavia’s turning towards her and launching herself off of the counter to get to her. “Clarke!” She exclaims, before barreling into Clarke’s arms. She pulls away with a jolt after squeezing Clarke tight. “Holy shit, what did you do to your hair?” She asks as she tugs on the blue.

“Raven got a little excited with the dye, it should come out in a few washes though.”

Murphy, ever the focused one on his cooking, only turns at the mentions of her hair. His critical eye glances over the bright blue locks before smirking at her. “You seriously want to give Abby a stroke, don’t you,” he jokes, turning back to his food.

Octavia releases her hair just so Clarke can go flick Murphy’s ear in retaliation. “ _No_ ,” she starts, poking him wherever she has access to until he relents and spoons a bite of whatever he is cooking to test taste.

Stir-fry. Her _favorite_.

She makes a show of contemplating the flavors as Murphy waits for her approval, which as always, she gives full heartedly. “It’s delicious,” she tells him while bumping him in the shoulder. “Thanks for making it.” She pulls him into a hug before he can turn back to his work and ignore her praise.

He accepts it with a good-natured roll of his eyes. “Welcome home Clarke.”

“Thanks,” she says as she hops up on the counter where Octavia had been when she walked in. “Now that you’re going to be this big, fancy chef going to a big, fancy cooking school, I definitely want one of those cakes that gets set on fire. And the ice-cream you put in a deep fryer.”

Murphy heaves a dramatic sigh as he continues stirring their dinner. “You’ve _had_ deep-fried ice-cream before, and Baked Alaska is practically an ice cream cake.”

“But _you’ve_ never made it for us, which means we’ve never had the best,” Octavia chimes in, joining Clarke up on the counter. Out of the three of them, they had discovered that Murphy was the only one who could cook something that was edible. But he was _really_ good at it, so he basically had the skills of three people anyways, which was fine with them.

Murphy snorts in place of letting the girls compliment him.

“So,” Octavia starts, turning her attention to Clarke. “Welcome home. You get moved in with Raven okay?”

Clarke nods. “Everything’s still in boxes, but when Raven saw I cut my hair, she wanted to test out dying the tips. She’s on a colored-hair kick.”

Octavia tilts her head to assess it. “I do like the short hair,” she prods with her change in tone, asking a question without saying it.

Clarke shrugs her shoulders. “Just wanted to start fresh. Moving back here, getting ready for the exhibit,” she trails off. “Everything’s changing, so why not my hair? Raven thinks the kids at the museum will like it.”

“Oh they definitely will,” Octavia agrees. “They’re going to think you’re the coolest artist yet, and I’m saying that even though my boyfriend is one of the other artists.”

Clarke sighs, looking between the two of them. “Murphy’s transferring out to go to a culinary institute, you’re _graduating_ from high school in a few weeks… when the hell did we grow up?”

“Who says any of you are grown up?” Abby calls from the doorway, fondly looking at her three kids and making her presence known, Marcus coming in right behind her.

Clarke hops off the counter instantly, going to hug them both in place of any of them having to respond.

“Welcome home, honey,” Abby says in her ear, before she stretches her arms out to get a good look at Clarke. “Now,” she pauses, “what is with the hair.”

She hears her siblings simultaneously snort behind her.

* * *

Three months after Octavia and Murphy came, Clarke’s watch went missing.

Her _dad’s_ watch went missing, Clarke’s most prized possession.

She looked everywhere for it. Sometimes she wore it, when she felt like she needed to be close to her father, but often, it was left in her room. She searched under dressers, in dressers, under her bed, and in every bag she had ever used.

She didn’t want to think it, didn’t even want the thought to cross her mind. But the more she looked, the more she was sure that the watch wasn’t there.

Someone had taken it.

She knocked on Murphy’s door, knowing he was inside. When he didn’t answer, she opened it to find him reading on his bed.

He jumped in surprise at seeing her, closing the book quickly and placing it behind him. “Uh, do you mind?” He said, tone clearly aggravated.

“Yeah,” Clarke responded, “I actually do.” She stepped further into the room, making it clear she wasn’t leaving. “Look, I get that you don’t like me, and that’s fine, but it’s not okay to just go in my room and take whatever you want.”

Murphy’s nostrils flared at her accusation. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Clarke crossed her arms across her chest. “The watch. It’s my dad’s,” she went on. “Please just give it back.”

At that, Murphy stood to get off his bed and walked towards her. “I didn’t take your damn watch Clarke,” he told her angrily. “I get you think I’m stealing things left and right from your perfect house–”

“That’s not–,” Clarke tried to defend, but Murphy barreled on.

“But I’m _not_ stupid! I know how this works, okay? The moment I fuck up, I get sent back. Do you really think I don’t get that if I go back again, I’m probably going to be stuck there until I’m fucking _eighteen_?” He seethed, nostrils flaring with an anger Clarke couldn’t begin to imagine.

“I–,” she started, trying to find something, anything to say. But it’d been three months since he got here, and the only thing she knew about him was what was on paper.

She judged him, and she was furious with herself for doing it.

“Now who do you think would take something _so obvious_ in the hopes that she could be sent back? So that she could be with her brother?” Murphy asked, taking a step away from Clarke to sit back on his bed.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke told him, guilt turning her stomach into knots.

Murphy rolled his eyes, not looking at Clarke. Then he got up, brushing past her to get to the door. “I’ll get your fucking watch back, and then you leave me the fuck alone.”

He headed down the hall to Octavia’s door.

Clarke followed, and watched as he knocked on the door and waited, refusing to look at Clarke, but also not barging in like she had done.

The door creaked open after a minute or so, Octavia peering out and glaring at him. “Cut the shit out and give Clarke her watch back,” he said, pushing the door open wider as he said it.

Octavia saw Clarke behind him, and her glare intensified, but she didn’t deny it. She turned back into her room, coming back a moment later with Clarke’s watch in hand. Clarke reached out for it, Octavia refusing to meet her eyes.

“Did you tell your parents? Am I going back?” Clarke heard the note of hope in her voice.

Clarke watched as Murphy shook his head, frustrated. “The courts decided that your brother wouldn’t be able to take care of you, Octavia. You do shit like this, you get sent back and then go to a different home. Here you can see Bellamy whenever you want, don’t be dumb.”

Clarke’s heart hurt with the acceptance she heard in Murphy’s voice, the pain she saw in Octavia’s eyes.

“We want you,” she heard herself saying, meeting both of their eyes when they looked back at her. “My mom and Marcus? Me? We want you both to feel like you have a place you can call home, a place where you feel _safe_.”

“I _have_ a home,” Octavia spit out.

“You’re right,” Clarke continued. “But now you have two. I get that I’m never going to understand what you guys have gone through, but you can talk to me. This can be your home too. There’s nothing you can do to make my mom and Marcus send you back, including taking my watch.”

She looked to both of them, prayed they could see how serious she was, that she’d never uproot them over an object, no matter its importance.

“Whatever you say,” Murphy said after a moment, before heading back to his room, but purposely leaving his door open. Octavia watched him go, before turning to Clarke.

“Fine,” she responded, and then headed back into her room, her door staying open as well.

Clarke looked down at the watch in her hands, putting it in her pocket and releasing a breath. “Alright.”

Things were rough, but they were going to get better.

But Clarke still had to speak with Bellamy.

She hadn’t talked to him since that first time he had snapped at her with his harsh words. He visited Octavia all of the time, and Abby and Marcus spoke very highly of him, but he seemed to take the route Octavia and Murphy had, and just ignore Clarke’s existence.

So when he rang the doorbell at the usual time one day, right after he got off from work, it was Clarke who answered.

The patronizing look she got from him was enough for her to match it with a glare. “Princess,” he said with a lift of his chin, walking past her into the house.

“Octavia thinks that if she gets put back into the system, she’ll be able to come live with you,” she informed him, getting right to the point.

Clarke watched the tension racket up his back at her words, and her gut twisted at realizing how less tense he’d become when coming over.

Bellamy was getting used to the situation. He came whenever he could, either to hang out with Octavia, even Murphy, or take Octavia for a couple of hours to spend some time together. And the agitation she felt coming from him at her words told her she had unsettled whatever calm he had obtained through that routine.

He turned slowly towards her, acknowledging her in a way he never had. “And it’s my fault, right?” He sneered, taking a step toward her. “I should just stop seeing my sister all together?”

“Of course not,” Clarke answered immediately, trying to take his anger in stride. “I just want you to be aware, because I don’t want her going and doing something that she can’t come back from.”

At that, Bellamy scoffed, and Clarke stepped forward, exasperated.

“Look, you can think whatever you want, but I care about her and Murphy and what happens to them. And we both know Octavia is more willing to listen to you than anyone else. Please just talk to her.”

Clarke watched as Bellamy ran a hand through his hair, turning away for a moment, before turning back towards her. “I’ll talk to her,” he finally answered.

She let out a relieved breath. “Thank you.”

But that only pulled a bitter laugh out of him.

“Just mind your own business next time, and you won’t have to stress yourself out so much, Princess.”

She gaped at him, trying to ignore the sting of his words and focusing on the tension in his jaw, the look that was always directed at her – amused, condescending, and completely uninterested in anything she had to say.

It was then she truly realized, no matter what she did, what she said, he was never going to give her a chance.

* * *

“Alright! Everyone make sure you don’t forget your capes and crowns!” Clarke calls as she sees the clock on the wall hit eight o’clock. “And make sure you grab your pictures off of the drying rack on your way out! T-shirts are still wet, so you’ll get them the next time you’re here!” She adds as the group of kids start bunching together, trying to grab all of their things and head out into the main lobby of the museum where parents are waiting for them.

She wipes her hands on her paint-stained smock, only getting half of the color off of her hands before reaching up to adjust her own crown on her head, her blue nub of a ponytail popping out wildly from the top.

Following the last of the kids out the room, she speaks with a few of the parents while waiting for everyone to be picked up. Once everyone’s gone, heading out of the museum and showing off all they have done over the past few hours, Clarke heads back in to clean up.

She unties her smock and tosses it to the side, noticing immediately that she already has additional stains on the Ark U t-shirt Murphy had gotten her for Christmas last year. She shouldn’t be surprised, the majority of her wardrobe is covered in paint at this point.

She starts with picking up the lingering paintbrushes, only to drop them all in a clatter when a voice speaks up from behind her.

“Wow, it looks like a rainbow threw up in here.”

The comment itself, doesn’t do much to startle her. Honestly, it does look exactly like that, with everyone’s t-shirts they had tie-dyed at the beginning of class hanging from string Clarke had draped from the ceiling, a colorful cape or two lingering on abandoned chairs as well.

It’s the person who says it that has her raising her defenses before she can even turn around.

She turns to find Bellamy leaning against the door of the museum’s activity room, looking relaxed in a way she’s never seen him. And he’s wearing a security uniform.

He smirks at her – in a way she’s never seen before either, almost _fond_ – when she continues to just stand there, waiting for a biting remark to come. “Do you need some help?”

Clarke continues to just stare at him, completely dumbstruck. “I– what?” She asks when she realizes this time he’s waiting for her to respond, and she’s taking way too long, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

But Bellamy doesn’t look at her in anger, or frustration, or a condescending way. He just repeats his question, if not while looking a little unsettled himself.

“Do you want some help cleaning up? I’ve got time, security here is pretty digital at this point, so if something happens, the other guy on camera duty will give me a heads up.”

“Uh,” Clarke starts, still thrown, “sure, I could use the help.” She can’t help but eye him warily as he leaves his spot by the door to start grabbing the paint palettes from the tables and bringing them to the sink to wash them off. She continues watching him from behind as she picks up the scattered brushes she had dropped.

“So,” he calls from over his shoulder, “is this a new program starting up for the summer?”

She takes her time placing the brushes back where they belong before answering, trying to figure out his angle on all of this. “Kind of,” she hedges, “it’s a weekly program where local artists come in to work with the kids using different art mediums. It’s my first time doing it, and I definitely over planned.” She feels his eyes follow hers to where the t-shirts are hanging. “Whoever’s in next week can pass back their disguises.”

“Disguises?” He asks, turning to fully look at her. She can’t get over how open, how curious he’s being. Is this where they’re at? After three years of not seeing each other, not speaking, they can be civil to each other?

“Each artist picks their own theme, or medium, or something,” she explains. He looks at her expectantly, and she can’t get over all of these parts of him she’s never seen before. “Mine was ‘badass super heroes with a royal twist,’ but the badass part was just kind of implied, because of, you know, kids being twelve and under.”

He laughs, bright, and Clarke can feel the set of her shoulders start to relax.

“Okay, explain to me what ‘badass super heroes with a royal twist’ entails,” he says while finishing the palettes and moving on to wiping the tables down.

And she does.

She tells him how she’s not a fan of the whole ‘girls are princesses and boys are superheroes’ thing, how she wanted to give them both, blend them together. Girls can be superheroes and boys can princesses. They can be both.

“Whatever the hell they want,” Bellamy says, which draws a smile from her.

“Exactly,” she continues excitedly. “So not surprisingly, since they had the choice for once, a lot of them chose both. I wanted to paint masks on their faces like mine,” she adds while gesturing to the navy blue strip of glitter paint that surrounds her eyes like an eye mask, “but again, I got way in over my head with too much stuff and had to ax it. Maybe next time.”

By this point, the room is as clean as it’s going to get, and they’ve settled into two of the chairs at one of the tables as Bellamy listens to her.

It can’t be this easy. After never exchanging a kind word, barely speaking, always fighting, it can’t be this easy to start over with him.

And it turns out, it isn’t.

“So Princess,” he hesitantly reaches up to toy with the crown still settled on her head, and Clarke’s blood runs cold.

_Princess_.

“Are you a full-time artist, or do you go to Ark U?” He asks, gesturing to her shirt with the hand that was just playing with her crown.

Clarke’s mind remains absolutely blank for a solid ten seconds before everything settles into place, and during that time, Bellamy continues looking at her in that way she’s never, ever seen.

The blue hair, the crown covering her little bit of blonde hair, the mask painted on her face, the paint covering her arms and clothing, the fact that they haven’t spoken in three years. That they really never spoke to begin with.

_He doesn’t recognize me_.

“Um, no,” she begins, trying to process everything that’s happened in the past half hour or so in a different light. _He doesn’t know who I am_ , runs on repeat in her head. “I don’t go to school,” she settles on. It’s been so nice talking to him, and she doesn’t want to ruin it. “I wouldn’t say I’m a full-time artist or anything, but I’m hoping I get there one day.”

She doesn’t notice she was staring at her hands clenched together until she feels Bellamy lean in closer, giving her a reassuring smile under the curls falling over his eyes. “I bet you’re awesome,” he tells her with a confidence she sometimes feels she doesn’t even have in herself.

Clarke’s not sure how her heart can expand and her stomach can twist simultaneously. But it does. “What about you?” She asks, attempting to steer the conversation away from her.

“I’m at Ark U,” he starts. _Octavia told me_ , she wants to say. “I’m working towards being a history teacher eventually. I just finished this semester, and I hopefully have two more to go and then I’ll be done. I work here during the summers and breaks. My– uh, well, it’s complicated. But I know someone who put in a good word for me here when I started school a few years ago, and the museum’s been really good with letting me come back.”

It’s a lot to hear at once. A lot to take in.

She knew he had started school the semester after she left for college, but of course he’d still have to work.

What surprises her more than anything is that he let Marcus help him.

It’s a lot of information, but she doesn’t want him to know that. “You like history?” She chooses to ask, because who would have thought. Bellamy Blake – history buff.

He ducks his head, like he’s embarrassed, before looking back up at her with a smile that’s pure happiness. “Being able to work in a history museum is almost my dream job, minus the fact that I’m security instead of a tour guide,” he admits, cheeks flushing.

Clarke’s having a hard time accepting everything that is happening right now as anything more than a dream. This can’t really be happening right now. She can’t be so charmed with a man who has never given her the time of day.

But that’s the thing. For the first time, unknowingly or not, Bellamy is giving her a chance.

So she takes it.

“Well, I think we should take a tour of the museum then. It’s closing up in,” she glances at the clock, “five minutes. I bet you know all the secret passages and hidden exhibits that only come to life at night when the museum closes.”

He tries to hide is smile, and absolutely fails. “Yeah Princess?”

And that’s the other thing.

She’s never heard that word, directed at her, coming from him, with such fondness. How easily she could get used to hearing it like that all the time. She doesn’t think she’d mind the nickname then.

She watches him as he stands and reaches out for her hand. “Then let’s get going, your night at the museum awaits,” he jokes.

Taking his hand, she gets pulled out of her seat. Grabbing her bag, she gets pulled into a private tour with Bellamy Blake.

* * *

“Who’s the kid following my sister around like a lost puppy?”

Clarke took her time to grab a soda from the cooler she’d been digging through before turning to face him. “Bellamy.”

“Princess,” he smirked.

She searched for Octavia in the group of kids in the pool, finding the focus of Bellamy’s attention immediately. “That’s Ilian, a friend of Octavia’s.” She watched as Octavia laughed freely, splashing Wells and Raven in the pool as Ilian joined in and soaked Octavia with a splash of his own arms.

Bellamy scoffed. “ _Friend_ , right. There a reason you invited a kid three years younger than you to your graduation party?” _You’re here, you’re two years older_ , she wanted to say, but she knew he was only here because Marcus had insisted that he stop by and Miller was here with Monty.

Clarke ignored the bait, looking at him with an even gaze as Bellamy continued to glare at Ilian. It’s as if he’s hoping Ilian would somehow feel it from across the pool where Bellamy and Clarke were standing by the snack area Marcus and her mom had set up out back for the kids while the adults mingled in the house.

“I invited Jasper and Monty,” she said pointedly, gesturing to where Monty and Miller were floating in tubes as they watched Jasper belly flop into the pool. “But they’re only a year younger, so I suppose that doesn’t count.”

The glare directed at Ilian switched to her instantly. “That’s different, and we both know it.”

Clarke couldn’t help the roll of her eyes, even if she wanted to. “They’re fourteen, Bellamy, what could they possibly get up to with a house full of adults and you refusing to look away from them for more than two seconds. She’s having fun, let her.”

It’s apparently the wrong thing to say, because she could feel the tension radiate off of him almost instantly. “It figures you’d encourage it, what do you care if he’s a hormonal teenage boy who’ll be on to the next pretty girl he sees by tomorrow.”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Clarke crossed her arms in front of her, gearing up for the apparent fight they were going to have in the middle of her party. “Ilian is a nice kid. He and Octavia like to hang out, and it hasn’t been an issue. Stop making it sound like it’s something terrible.”

“So this has been something that’s been going on? And no one thought to mention it to me?” His jaw locked, vein popping on one side. “God, you’re such an enabler.”

She had no time to appreciate the fact that this was the longest conversation they had ever had. Not when his words were becoming more and more heated and he was blaming her for seemingly nothing.

“An _enabler_? Seriously?”

“You say you care about her and then you let her get away with anything that doesn’t affect you,” he accused, anger rising by the second.

“She didn’t do anything! _They_ didn’t do anything! Octavia asked if he could come and I told her yes. It’s a safe environment and there’s enough people here for it to be a group setting where she could feel comfortable. I’m not an idiot, I knew what I was doing.” Clarke tried not to yell, not to shove him until he gets a grip, but he was being ridiculously judgmental, even for him. She was used to being the target of his anger, but he’s mad enough that apparently anyone’s fair game.

“You still don’t get it–,” he started, but Clarke cut him off.

“Get what? That you’re a judgmental ass? Believe me, I’ve known that since we met,” she spit out, frustrated with how he was getting to her. She could see that they were starting to gather the attention of everyone by the pool.

“You’re not her family, Clarke!” He yelled abruptly, halting anything that she was going to say next. “You’re not her family,” he repeated, seething, “you’re not her sister, you have no say on what is good for her, have _no clue_ what is good for her.”

The fight went out of her instantly, replaced by a sudden hurt she didn’t think Bellamy could inflict. She saw Bellamy’s eyes widen, thought for a second he’d apologize for his cruel words.

Instead he just cut deeper, eyes hardening again. “You go to college, and you’ll forget all about her and Murphy in no time.”

She latched onto the last remnants of her anger, enough for her to shove him, enough for him to take a step back. “You’re an _asshole_ , Bellamy. You have a chance to go to school now, instead of running yourself into the ground with working however many different jobs–”

“I’m not interested in–”

“Like hell you’re not interested!” She shouted, noting their captive audience in the pool. “Octavia told me how you were supposed to go to college before everything happened. How you changed your mind to take care of her. But she’s taken care of, start taking care of your goddamn self.”

For once, he was speechless.

So she powered on, ignoring the eyes of everyone frozen around them.

“You have a chance to get the education you want. Go far, stay close, I don’t care. Ark U is right here, you’d be able to see Octavia anytime like you do now,” she told him, the last of her anger dissipating.

He stood in front of her, continuing to not say anything. She watched him as he turned to see everyone else break from their stares and stumble to make it look like they hadn’t heard the entire thing.

They both watched Octavia storm out of the pool straight towards them.

And then, without a word, he turned away and started walking toward the front of the house, undoubtedly to his car. Octavia followed after him, wrapping a towel around herself and yelling at him as she trailed behind him.

Clarke watched the Blakes as they disappeared to the front of the house, feeling her eyes burn, but refusing to let herself cry over anything that came out of Bellamy’s mouth.

She felt someone come up from behind her to stand to her right. “Graduation and college are touchy subjects for him,” Miller said, eyes staying on the spot where Octavia and Bellamy had disappeared to. “He was on edge since he got here.”

Clarke’s gaze stayed on the same spot. “That’s no excuse.” She hated that her voice wobbled, ever so slightly.

“It’s not,” Miller agreed, “but I hope you understand.”

Clarke nodded sharply once. “I understand that no matter what I do, Bellamy’s opinion of me is never going to change.”

She ignored Miller’s sigh in favor of popping her soda can open and heading towards her friends.

She ignored the fact that Bellamy had actually called her by her real name for the first time since they met.

* * *

They wander through the museum for hours.

He tells her everything he knows about each exhibit as they head from room to room, and Clarke finds herself completely enthralled with his stories. Bellamy’s animated when he talks, hands flying out as he tells her all about the Roman Empire after making their way through its exhibit, eyes gleaming with excitement when she asks him questions.

It’s something she never could have imagined experiencing – Bellamy smiling at her, wanting to hear what she has to say about this painting or that statue – but she is.

He asks about her own art when they make it back to the main lobby.

“I’m guessing that you like to paint, since you had the kids work with it,” he eyes her arms, making her cheeks warm, “and well, you’re covered in it.”

“I sketch a lot too.”

“Yeah?” Bellamy smiles, pleased. “What do you draw?” Clarke hesitates for a second, and he catches it. “You don’t have to share if you don’t want to,” he adds.

“No, it’s not that,” Clarke explains while making her way over to one of the cushioned benches on the outer edge of the lobby. He follows. “It’s just that I draw a lot of different things. People, places, whatever gives me inspiration. I sketch and paint, but the topic is always different.”

“Can I see?” His eyes hold nothing but pure curiosity as they sit down on the bench.

_No_ , is the simple answer. Her main sketch book has drawings of everything she sees on a day-to-day basis. And that includes drawings of Octavia, Murphy, Monty and Miller, her mom and Marcus, Raven and Wells. It’d give her away in a heartbeat.

But she could show him something else.

She reaches into her bag, bypassing her large sketchbook in favor of the thinner one right next to it. “Okay,” she places the book in between them on the bench, so that when she opens it, half is balanced on her leg and half is balanced on his, “these are just doodles really. But, um, they’re concept art for a story I can’t get out of my head. I’m thinking of trying to make it a comic eventually.”

“What’s the idea?” He asks, already beginning to flip through the pages.

“A girl who’s both. Who says she can’t be a princess who kicks ass and saves the world?”

Bellamy smiles at her. “Fight those gender norms, right?”

“Yup.” She takes a chance and bumps his shoulder with hers. “It’s a really rough plan right now, but I brought it to show the kids, so they knew where I was pulling our activities from.”

She watches as he traces his finger over the crown she drew at the bottom of the page. On every page. “Is this your signature?”

Clarke glances back at him, before looking down at the crown, her crown. “Yeah, it just stuck with me when I drew it one day.” After she dropped out of school, after the initial blowout with her mom because of it, she drew anything that came to mind, and the crown just wouldn’t leave her.

Bellamy looks back to her, drawing her attention to him. “You really are a princess,” he teases. “A princess without a name,” he adds after a moment, the question clear in his tone.

And just as Clarke feels the panic set in deciding whether she should tell him who she is or not, her phone goes off in her bag, blaring the ringtone Octavia had assigned herself ages ago.

It’s enough to rattle her into standing up, if only so Bellamy won’t see Octavia’s picture pop up on her screen. “I’m sorry, I have to take this,” she tells him, before bolting to the other side of the lobby. “Hello?”

“Clarkey!” Octavia yells from the other end. Whether she means to be yelling or not is another question entirely.

Clarke sighs, exasperation setting in immediately. “Hey, where are you?” Octavia only drinks when she’s with her or Murphy, or when she’s at Jasper’s.

“Monty and Jasper are hosting a pre-graduation party,” she confirms, speech only slightly slurred. “But I’m ready to leave.”

“How did you get there?”

“Murphy dropped me off, but he’s out with Emori now. Bellamy’s working tonight, and I don’t want to get a lecture from him anyways.” Clarke can’t help her eyes falling on Bellamy when Octavia mentions him, but he’s still looking at her book.

She checks the time on her phone. “Alright, I’ll be there by midnight,” she tells her, walking towards the museum’s entrance.

“And not a minute later!” Octavia exclaims just as Clarke locks her phone.

“I have to head out,” Clarke calls to Bellamy from the entrance, praying he doesn’t get up. He does, of course, making his way towards her.

When he makes it over to her, she can see the worry clear on his face. “Everything okay?”

“Oh yeah, it’s just my–,” she stumbles over the word ‘sister,’ knowing it’s his sister too. And how would she even begin to explain that? “It’s my sister, she needs to be picked up from a friend’s house.”

“You have a sister?”

She winces, hopes he misses it. Of course he’d focus on that, his sister is his entire life.

“I do,” she says, immediately changing the subject. “I had a really great time,” she steps toward the entrance, pushing the gigantic door open with a shove, “thanks for the tour, and the help cleaning up. But I really have to go, I’m sorry.”

Clarke can feel herself getting more and more agitated, feeling her real world start to smother the wonderful, almost magical, time she’s had with him over the past few hours, and trying to get out before everything blows up in her face.

Miraculously, Bellamy stays where he is, but it’s clear he doesn’t want her to leave just yet. “Hey, wait,” he hesitates just on the other side of the threshold, seeming to think something over. “Can I at least get your name?”

She stares at him, just as the door starts to slowly close between them, to see the question in his eyes, the confusion, the plea. All of it mixed what she thinks might be hope.

She wants to, god does she want to tell him the truth.

_It’s me, Clarke._

But that hope would turn to disdain in a heartbeat, she’s sure of it.

Smiling at him with a regret she can feel down to her toes, she shakes her head before running down the stairs.

He lets her go, and their little fairytale bubble effectively bursts.

* * *

Clarke was sitting on the edge of the pool, feet dangling in the water, when Octavia plopped herself down next to her.

Her friends were still fooling around on the other side of the pool, leaving Clarke alone when she said she just needed a moment alone. She felt drained, and kind of just wanted the party to end.

“Bellamy was out of line, and he knows it,” Octavia said as they both watched their feet make waves in the water. “He promised me he’d be nice.”

At that, Clarke barked out a laugh. “Octavia, your brother hates me. It’d probably kill him to be nice to me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” she told Clarke, equal parts surprised and earnest, turning to look at her. “He just– he has a hard time accepting help, so all the things Marcus and Abby do for me are like more and more things _he_ will owe them for.”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “They do everything they do because they love you, those aren’t things they expect repayment for. And that has nothing to do with me.”

“You probably have done the most for me, actually,” Octavia laughed. “You pushed and pushed until Murphy and I let you in. You watch out for us, and you always listen when I need to talk.” She reached out, taking Clarke’s hand. “You’re my sister, Clarke.”

Clarke felt her heart squeeze, listening to Octavia. She had hoped that she and Murphy would see themselves as part of their family one day, but she wasn’t sure it would ever happen. Her _sister_.

“I’m going to miss you when you leave in the fall, and Murphy will too, whether he says it or not,” Octavia admitted. “And Bell knew that, so it probably was a factor too. He’s spent his whole life looking after me, and now here I am, with people who care about me that aren’t just him. I think he worries he’ll be left behind.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Clarke argued, squeezing her hand. “He’s so important to you. Mom and Marcus think the world of him in part because of how much he cares about you.”

Octavia smiled, almost a little sad. “I know that. I think he just doesn’t know how to stop worrying.”

Clarke could see the way the conversation affected Octavia, and didn’t want her day to end on a bad note too. So she bumped her shoulder with hers, choosing to focus on something else, for both of them. “Enough about your brother. You and Ilian look like you’re getting along well,” she teased.

The blush that flooded Octavia’s cheeks told Clarke everything she needed to know, even without Octavia stuttering away excuses while Clarke smirked knowingly.

* * *

A week after the museum, Clarke finds herself in her parents’ kitchen again, sketching the scene in front of her – Murphy teaching Emori how to bake cookies from scratch.

“John, we could have been done already if you just let me put a pack of the pre-made dough in the oven,” Emori complains, not for the first time, as Murphy starts adding morsels to the dough she is currently mixing.

“ _Pre-made_ dough,” Murphy scoffs, and Clarke can’t help her smile as she focuses on her drawing. The two of them look so domestic, even with them constantly throwing quips at each other. They’re _cute_ , and Clarke never thought she’d use that term to describe her brother.

Octavia comes into the kitchen like a whirlwind, head spinning to take in what is going on before making her way towards Clarke and settling into the seat next to her, placing her crossed arms on the counter in front of her and sighing dramatically when no one acknowledges her directly.

“Octavia,” Emori calls from by the oven, “do you want cookies in the next ten minutes? Or the next three hours?”

They both watch from the counter as Murphy rolls his eyes. “They’ll be ready in like twenty minutes tops, not three hours! And they’ll be _delicious_ ,” he adds, mock-glaring at Emori.

Their glares hold for a whole second before they’re looking at each other fondly again.

Octavia chooses to ignore them, focusing her attention on Clarke, which should be her first sign. “Your hair’s back to normal,” she observes, tugging on a short strand to apparently scrutinize the blonde quality of it.

“It _was_ temporary.” She swats Octavia’s hand away so she can capture the admiration on Murphy’s face to make fun of him later.

When Clarke continues to ignore her in favor of her sketch, Octavia decides to give Clarke a heart attack.

“I just came back from lunch with Bell,” she says, voice far too innocent for Clarke’s liking. That should have been her second sign.

She pauses for a second at the mention of Bellamy, but keeps drawing, not thinking about the Bellamy from a week ago and trying to continue to act like she would any other time Bellamy’s name would come up.

Which would be to hum and nod until Octavia moved on to talking about something else.

So she hums and nods, laser-focusing on her book.

“Yeah,” Octavia goes on, “all he could talk about was some girl he met at work last weekend.”

And that, is when the heart attack slowly starts to set in.

“A girl?” Emori chimes in, grabbing any reason to come over and leave the baking to Murphy. “He met a girl while working night shift? Is that even possible?”

“Was it a statue?” Murphy asks, starting to roll the dough into balls and put them on a tray.

“Nope,” Octavia responds, head tilting to observe even the slightest change in how Clarke moves. She can feel her heart starting to pound, her skin tingling. And she can feel Octavia’s eyes watching her like a hawk. There’s absolutely no way Bellamy figured out it was her, but Octavia is a whole other species of observant. “She was the artist this week for the local artists program that’s been going on. Apparently they spent hours going through the museum, but then she left in a rush before he could get her name, only leaving a sketch book behind.”

“Of course she did,” Murphy says while sliding the tray into the oven. “Sounds like some kind of serious Cinderella shi–,” he halts, whipping around to face the three of them, realization dawning on his face as Clarke’s urge to crawl under the counter intensifies. “Holy fuck.”

“What?” Emori asks curiously, completely oblivious to Clarke’s turmoil as Murphy stares at her in shock and Octavia smirks triumphantly.

Octavia chooses not to answer her, instead continuing on with her conversation in a far-to-casual tone. “Yeah, I guess this girl was amazing. Totally passionate about what she does, seemed interested in all of his nerding out about the different exhibits, an incredible artist...”

Clarke can feel her face burning as she closes her book and places her stuff on the counter, turning to glare at her and ignore Murphy gaping. She can’t even begin to pick apart the things Octavia is saying.

Emori looks between the three of them. “I’m clearly missing something.”

“I thought I was too,” Octavia says. “It just wasn’t adding up to me, because I know who the artist this week was, and what my brother was telling me wasn’t making sense, because he knows her too. That is, until he told me about her hair.”

“Her hair?” Emori says, confused, looking to Clarke for some explanation.

Murphy finishes the story, eyes never leaving Clarke. “Her hair was blue. He didn’t know it was her.”

“How do you know that?” Emori asks Murphy, but stops from asking anything else when she sees the other two staring expectantly at Clarke.

It’s quiet after that, all three of them looking for three very different explanations. And she realizes with a start that if Octavia knows…

“Please tell me you didn’t tell him,” she tells Octavia, panicked for reasons she couldn’t even begin to explain. All she knows is that he _can’t_ know it was her.

“What I’m not getting is why you didn’t.” Octavia levels her with a look that can only be described as unimpressed.

Emori’s eyes widen when she finally understands. “Holy shit, Clarke is Cinderella.”

“I’m not Cinderella,” Clarke groans, putting her head down on the counter in defeat.

“Clarke,” Octavia starts once Clarke peers up through her arms. “Do you realize he’s been trying to find you? He’s been going around to places that host art from local artists looking for your signature. He actually asked me to find out if Lincoln knew who you were. You’re all he could talk about today! This princess who he can’t get out of his head.”

“That’s just it!” Clarke argues, lifting her head defiantly. _He’s been looking for me_ , plays on loop in her head. “This princess that he’s actually known for years and oh yeah, he actually can’t stand,” she finishes, dismayed.

Octavia looks almost hurt at her words. “That’s not true.”

“Yes it is, Octavia.” Clarke can hear the disappointment in her voice. “The minute Bellamy finds out it’s me, it will be over before it can even start.”

“You make it sound like he’ll find out eventually,” Murphy points out, leaning in on the other side of the counter.

Clarke looks at Octavia, trying to portray her thoughts without having to say it. Octavia may do anything for Clarke, but she would never lie to her brother, especially when Bellamy is asking for her and Lincoln’s help.

Understanding, and frustration, dawns on Octavia’s face. “I can’t lie to him,” she says. “I don’t know what you think will happen once he finds out. He’s not the angry eighteen-year-old you met when I came here. But you have to give him a chance.”

“Like he’s always given me a chance?” Whatever tiny bit of indignation Clarke has in her decides to make an appearance, even if she knows it’s not fair.

Octavia’s expression changes from one of frustration to anger instantly and Emori and Murphy eye each other warily. “You mean during the time he lost the only parent he ever had _and_ me? Or when his life was completely uprooted and he didn’t have a single stable outlet to turn to?” She challenges, and the guilt hits Clarke instantaneously.

Bellamy was a fleeting thought over the past three years, and before that, she was in no place to hold what he said against him. His life had fallen apart, and he was trying to stand on his feet for no other reason than to make sure Octavia was okay. She was the only constant in his life, and he was taking on responsibilities people his age couldn’t even begin to imagine, including Clarke.

She said that she had understood, that she got it, but how could she possibly ever?

“I’m sorry. I’m just– I should have told him, but I’ve never seen him like that and I _liked_ it. I liked that he joked with me and was sweet. He was animated and passionate and threw himself into our conversations. I didn’t want to ruin it,” she admits glumly.

“Clarke,” Octavia sighs, frustrated. “That _is_ my big brother. He’s awkward, and a nerd, and clearly doesn’t know how to get a girl’s name, let alone her number. You met him at the worst point in his life. The guy you remember literally doesn’t exist, let him show you.”

Clarke tries to imagine a world where everything works out the way Octavia thinks it will. But real life doesn’t turn out like that, life isn’t a fairytale.

She opts to burrowing her head in her arms again, groaning in frustration. “And if he does hate me?” She asks, voice smaller than she’d like.

She feels Octavia move to wrap her arm around her, squeezing her reassuringly. “I know my brother, and I’m 99% sure he’s head over heels for the princess, for _you_.”

“And,” Murphy adds while sliding a plate of warm cookies towards her until it bumps her arms, “if that other 1% were to happen, we’ll just drown your sorrows in delicious, home-made cookies.”

“ _John_.”

Clarke picks up her head once more, stealing a cookie and stuffing it in her mouth forlornly. “I’ll tell him once everything with the exhibit is over.”

At Octavia’s dubious look, Clarke reaches for her hand and gives it a squeeze.

“Give me the week till then, and I’ll tell him right after. I _promise_.”

* * *

That summer before college, Clarke spent as much time as possible with her friends and family. She never saw Bellamy again.

She went to school, and kept in touch with Octavia, Raven, and Wells all the time, Murphy every once in a while.

Octavia would give her updates on her life, which would of course include updates on Bellamy as well. How could it not, when she loved him so much?

_Clarke, he decided to start taking night classes! Isn’t that amazing?_

_He’s switching to full-time at Ark U!_

_He seems so much happier, Clarke. He’s doing well._

When she was home for breaks, she never saw him. She was convinced he specifically avoided coming to the house when he knew she was home.

And when Clarke dropped out, after she realized she couldn’t do what she was doing for however many more years of school, let alone the rest of her life, she didn’t come home immediately. She rented an apartment for a year with the money her dad had left her, and sat around for a month before her sketchbook found its way into her hands after years of neglect.

And she drew, and sketched, and painted.

It was the hardest time she’d had since her dad died. She visited home, came for holidays, but she kept going back to that apartment to keep drawing, sketching, and painting until she was ready to come home for good, and make her passion a reality.

She spoke with Raven and Octavia constantly. They kept her going, telling her about everything and anything going on in their lives or with the people at home – Raven moving on to her masters faster than anyone else in her program, Murphy dating a girl who matched his fire with her own, Octavia meeting an artist who was gentle and kind.

But after a while, Bellamy’s name didn’t come up. Octavia stopped mentioning him to her.

And Clarke didn’t ask.

* * *

“Are you nervous?”

Clarke turns to where Raven is standing in the doorway to her bedroom while she puts her other earring in.

“Of course I am,” she admits, running her hands down the front of her black dress, “but it’s not like I’m selling them or anything, so even if it’s just you guys that show up, I won’t have pure tangible proof that nobody wants to buy my paintings.”

Raven rolls her eyes, moving into the room and plopping herself on Clarke’s bed. “The whole town shows up for these exhibits whether they’re good or bad, and yours kicks ass. I bet people are going to be offering you money for them anyway.”

Clarke still gives her a nervous smile, turning back toward the mirror for one final check.

She decided to move back when she did because she was ready. She had missed her friends and family more than anything, but she also knew that she wasn’t getting anything more out of staying in the apartment. Between speaking with Lincoln about the program he was involved with at the museum, and Marcus encouraging her to submit some of her pieces for the monthly Local Art Show, she knew it was time.

It’s just, this is the first time her work will be out there for people to critique.

Running her hands through her hair one more time, they settle on the pink tinged at the tips. “I like the pink better than the blue,” she tells Raven, who snorts in response.

“That’s because it’s not your entire head that’s pink. I told you I’d get it right when we did it for real.”

She turns back to Raven. “You and Wells will be there when it starts?”

Raven sits up from where she was laying. “We’ll be the first ones in, right after Abby and Marcus.”

Clarke gives her a nod before going to grab her bag off the dresser. She’s too keyed up to not get there early to make sure everything is set up how she left it the night before.

Octavia hadn’t been thrilled about withholding the truth from her brother, but she knew how important this exhibit was to Clarke. So for the week leading up to it, Octavia reluctantly told Clarke when Bellamy was on shift at the museum so that she could go in and set up her section of the exhibit when he wasn’t there.

She knew the moment he heard her voice, he’d realize the truth for himself.

But she’s not expecting him to be standing in front of her landscape paintings when she walks in to do her final check, wearing his security uniform.

She freezes on the spot, eyes widening in a combination of surprise, anxiety, and nervous energy.

He turns at the sound of her heels on the tiled floor, and his eyes widen too, his in complete shock.

“Clarke?”

She just stands there, not knowing what emotions are running through her, let alone knowing what to say.

“O said you were back in town, I just never expected to see you here,” Bellamy says.

Clarke watches him, tries to analyze what he’s thinking by his tone. He doesn’t _sound_ accusatory or angry, but she’s also never heard her name come out his mouth like that – just pure surprise.

Does he know? Did he figure it out before she had a chance to tell him?

When she doesn’t respond, he ducks his head, smile wry. “I just got off my shift, but I wanted to check something out in the exhibit before it opens tonight.”

_He’s been going around to places that host art from local artists looking for your signature._

Bellamy turns his head back to her paintings, and she watches his eyes focus on the crown settled in the corner of one of them.

“You don’t happen to know the girl who did these, do you?” He asks, gesturing to her work.

If Clarke’s stomach wasn’t wound up in enough knots, it certainly is at realizing he _still_ doesn’t know it’s her. If she doesn’t tell him now, there will be no going back from this.

She opens her mouth. “I–,” and then shuts it again.

But he’s looking at her so _curiously_ , if not the slightest bit confused. He may not know she’s the girl he’s been looking for, but he knows that she’s Clarke – the girl he’s known for years – and could Octavia be right? The guy she remembers wasn’t who Bellamy really is?

“They’re mine,” she tells him, voice far stronger than she feels. “I’m one of the artists showcasing tonight.”

His curiosity turns to confusion instantly, glancing between her and the pieces again before turning to face her fully. She didn’t realize how well she’d been able to read his emotions over the years until his face is completely unreadable.

“You’re her?” He asks, tone unreadable too. “The princess with the blue hair?” She feels his eyes narrow in on her pink hair.

“Yes,” she says, trying not to panic as she takes a step towards him. “I was going to tell you–”

“But you didn’t, Clarke,” he cuts in, voice as neutral as ever. He takes a step back. “You knew it was me the entire time and you chose not to tell me.”

Clarke stays where she is, her heart beginning to splinter at how he’s looking at her. She has _no idea_ what he is thinking, but dread is starting to creep up on her. “I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid.”

“Afraid of me?” The hurt in his voice conveys exactly how he interpreted her words.

“No! Of course not,” she protests. “At first I thought you knew it was me, and we were just going to start off fresh, but then you didn’t know, and I was afraid that if you knew, you would realize you didn’t actually want to be there. That I was still the girl you couldn’t stand to be around.”

“Couldn’t stand,” he repeats, running a hand through his hair. “God Clarke, I know I was awful to you back then, but I didn’t know how to fix that. I thought you despised me, so I took myself out of the picture.”

“Bellamy–,” she tries, this time desperate. _Despise_ him?

“I don’t hate you. I’ve never hated you.” He looks at her, and suddenly every emotion he was hiding is on full display for her to see. “I’m sorry that you ever thought that I did, and I’m sorry that you felt you couldn’t tell me the truth because you thought I wouldn’t want you once I found out.”

He doesn’t give her a chance to respond before he’s making his way out of the exhibit, ignoring her pleas for him to stop, to wait. She grabs for his arm, but lets go when they get to the exit and Marcus and her mom walk through.

They’re separated when her mom pulls her in for a hug, telling her how excited she is to see the pieces Clarke submitted so they came a bit early, as Marcus greets Bellamy, who continues taking steps away.

“It’s good to see you, Marcus, but I have to head out,” he tells him, refusing to glance at Clarke as he makes his escape. She feels like her heart is ripping in two, and she wonders if this is how he felt that night she had left in a rush.

He’s gone before she can even call his name, and she feels her parents’ eyes on her from behind. “Everything okay?” Marcus asks.

She takes a minute to compose herself, swallow down every wild emotion, before she turns to give them a smile she knows they can read as fake.

“Everything’s fine,” she tells them, and goes to show them all of her hard work.

* * *

The rest of the night is a blur.

Far more people than she could have imagined show up to support her and the other artists, people she’s never seen before in her life.

But then there’s the people she knows and loves – her parents, Raven and Wells, Octavia and Lincoln, Murphy and Emori, Monty and Miller, even Jasper.

They all shower her with congratulations and praise, telling her how the few pieces she was able to submit were amazing, and she allows for their words to flow through her, give her the energy to converse with strangers and network for businesses who may be interested in eventually purchasing one of her paintings.

She does it all with a smile, and hours later, when the crowd has broken and only a few people linger, she settles down on one of the velvet benches in front of her work.

Not a minute later, Octavia drops down next to her, two glasses of champagne in hand. She wordlessly hands one to Clarke, and continues to stare at the paintings.

“I’m sure Marcus will be thrilled that the minors here have such easy access to the alcohol.”

“Ha. Ha,” Octavia retorts, making a show of taking a gulp. “This was amazing. I’m so proud of you.”

Clarke sighs, all of the events from the night catching up with her. “You’ll be prouder to know that I spoke with Bellamy,” she tells her, and that gets Octavia’s full attention.

“You did?”

“Yep,” she takes a sip from her glass. “And then he walked right out the front door after confirming everything you’ve been trying to tell me. He doesn’t hate me,” Clarke takes another, larger sip, “but I also don’t think we’ll ever get back what we had that night.”

“Oh Clarke,” Octavia says, tilting her head to rest it on Clarke’s shoulder. “Give him some time.”

Clarke wasn’t sure all the time in the world could fix this, but she lets Octavia console and reassure her anyways.

“Hey! We’re heading to the house for the after party,” Raven calls from the entrance to the exhibit, Lincoln and Wells standing behind her. It’s only then that Clarke realizes that everyone else has cleared out. “You coming with us, Octavia?”

She looks to Clarke. “I can stay, just head home with you.”

“You go,” Clarke insists. “I’ll head out soon, just want to take everything in a little while longer.”

Octavia hesitates, but ends up pulling Clarke in for a hug before moving to stand up. “He’ll come around,” she assures her, and heads out with Raven and the boys in tow.

Alone, Clarke takes in a deep breath through her nose, letting out a long sigh as she closes her eyes. She’s not really surprised when she feels someone sit down next to her, figures it’s Raven or Wells coming to convince her to come with them.

But then she opens her eyes to find Bellamy staring back at her with the smallest of smiles on his face, and Clarke is alert in an instant.

She takes him in, looking almost – shy. The fact that he’s now in a suit isn’t lost on her.

“Um, hi.” He clears his throat. “Here.”

From his other side, he lifts her small sketch book she had left behind that night, and gently places it in her hands that are settled in her lap. “I’ve been carrying it around in case I found you so I could return it, and of course the one time I need it, I don’t have it.” The blush that rises to his ears is not lost on her either.

Clarke can’t help the smile on her face. How did she never push to get him to let her in like she had with Octavia and Murphy? Why didn’t she see his defenses were up?

Because now? He’s not hiding at all.

“I should have set everything straight the moment I figured out you didn’t know,” she confesses, setting the book on her other side on the bench.

“Maybe,” he agrees, bright eyes catching her gaze, “but I wouldn’t change that night for anything.”

What she should do is smile and say something to keep talking until they have everything out in the open. But really, everything’s laid out pretty clearly. They both shouldn’t have said some things, should have said things they didn’t and done things differently. But they were either young and hurting, or unaware and hesitant.

And now, they’re not.

Now, they’re sitting in a museum that only holds a small part of their story, and Clarke would really like to continue that story with him.

So she closes the distance between them on the bench, brushing her lips against his softly, quickly. She pulls back almost immediately, hoping she’s not ruining something she thinks could be amazing.

His eyes are wide, and she can practically see the hope warring with something else there. She pushes that something else away by leaning in again, kissing him like she really wants to – full of promise and want and joy.

He responds in kind, matching her kisses with ones of his own that hold just as many promises, and possibly even more joy. His hand reaches up into her curls, holding her head and pulling her even closer to him.

Eventually, Clarke finds she’s smiling too much to keep kissing him and pulls away to beam at him instead, and his responding smile is just as satisfying as kissing him.

“So what does that mean?” He asks her as the hand in her hair softly runs over the pink strands. The look he’s giving her can only be described as _warm_.

“I like you,” she responds instantly, pulling him in for another quick kiss. “And I wouldn’t change that night for anything either, but…”

“But?” He prompts, leaning in close.

“But I want many, many more nights like that with you, and more.”

“And more,” he echoes, grinning. “Sounds good to me, Princess.”

And so, the next chapter of their story begins.

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt me on tumblr](http://andthelightbulbclicks.tumblr.com/askbox) :)


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